A mentor I never actually met died yesterday. His name was Harold Pinter. This man's work has been a towering influence over my own for decades ever since as a precocious 15-year-old, I directed and starred in a production of Old Times, along with my good pal Elyse Singer. I don't think any single member of our audacious cast and crew was older than 16. Of course we had no idea what we were doing, but there sure was a thrill in immersing ourselves fully in a new kind of language, a new landscape of character, emotion and the often misunderstood "Pinter Pause."
Since that first foray so many years ago, I've felt a close connection to this master playwright in spite of the fact that we never met.
My work has been compared to his by more than one critic, and I must admit that in spite of my fervent protestations of not giving a hoot what they write about me, seeing my name and his in the same sentence in newsprint has always given me a tiny feeling of pride. I once wrote to him and he wrote back, a very thoughtful and kind note about a play of mine I'd sent. For that I was grateful too.
His writing for the screen was always (in my opinion) under-appreciated. His film Turtle Diary still makes me weep whenever I pop it in my VCR. He had a gift for showing us the darker side of ourselves. And that, in a world driven by commerce—and by extension, light and breezy fare—took guts and perseverance.
He was also brave as a citizen, speaking out on all sorts of political issues, many of which made him a lot of enemies; I didn't agree with all his political positions—certainly not his opinion of Israel, for example—but the fact that he chose to speak his mind, one can't help but admire. Doing so put at risk his career and spoke to a kind of integrity that's rare.
I was told by someone who knew him socially that he was "as acidic as his plays." That may have been so, but I still thank God he wrote them all! They are a monumental achievement and offer us greater insight into the human heart.
After the most recent Broadway production of The Homecoming, I overheard an older woman complaining as she exited the theatre: "They're all so disturbed, those people! But, why? He doesn't tell us why!"
Precisely the point.
They don't make many like Harold Pinter. He will be sorely missed.
